Brandt
by Brennon Sithech
Summary: After leaving the horror that was Mordheim, Brandt feels the weight of his decisions resting on his shoulders.


**Brandt**

Briac closed the tavern door with a slam, snapping the lock into place and running the bolt through its rusty clasps. He looked around, most; if not all of the patrons seated at the less than modest tables groaned and wrapped their thick travelling garments around their shoulders. Briac rubbed his hands together, feeling the odd sensation of heat finally returning to his fingers. He picked his way through the tables, the grumbling patrons and their watered down ale and approached the long bar which was set back under a large landing above, that too heaving with souses and lost souls, and rapped his knuckles on the wooden surface.

The barman, a large man who barely fitted the already large apron tied around his waist, waddled over and with moustache quivering like a walrus' asked in a gruff tone what he wanted.

"Just the one" Briac said, pointing to the barrel of XXX ale lodged on a pedestal behind the man. He turned as the barman went about his business and looked at his fellow patrons.

He had been too quick he realised to just dismiss the crowd as one of souses and vagrants, drunkards and peasants. In the far corner a group of the town watch huddled for warmth, their halberds propped beside them. Near them was a dwarf, sat nursing his ale like a babe, stroking his beard and the flagon in equal measure and care. He could not hear the murmurings of the fellow above the tavern noise but from his brow furrowed expression he could tell something was troubling him. He lingered a moment longer on the dwarf before looking to the rest of the tavern, his eye caught an old man hunched over a plate of picked clean bones. Briac reached behind him to the flagon and took it over to his table.

"Is anyone sitting here?" he said, pointing to the chair and speaking slowly.

The old man looked up from wispy eyebrows and flashed a pair of light blue to him. "No, take a seat" he said, kicking the chair out from under the round table and moving the plate of bones to the side.

Briac took it hastily and moved his flagon towards the man. "Here, take this". He smiled as best he could and surveyed the old mans attire.

The old man was dressed head to toe in battered leather. His jerkin was a relic, decades old with stains of blood amongst other things. A rusty coat of chainmail was stuffed underneath it, sword slashes and some links missing from it. His face was aged terribly. Deep furrowed brows showed an age of stress, and the deep scar across his forehead was still red raw when he pulled an expression. His hair was matted and grey, hanging down like a mane to the small of his back, and a thick beard, with occasional tokens woven into it hung from his gaunt chin.

"What is your name old man?" Briac said, leaning forwards as the man took the beer and drank deep.

"My name? Very few people have asked me that question in over a decade. But, you were gracious enough to send a flagon my way so I will answer. My name is Brandt." He held out a withered hand and shook Briac's.

"My name is Briac, you don't know me but I just wondered about you. You look like you have seen many hard times." He ushered to his face, the deep scar above his eyes.

"That would be an understatement and no mistake." Brandt said, looking down into the now empty flagon and a far away glaze settling over his blue eyes. "I've seen things that would make your blood chill, your bones jump from your skin, and your eyes bleed" the glaze seemed to take over and he stared at the bottom of the flagon, the residue of the amber nectar fizzing away before him.

"I am strong of stomach" Brandt said "And mind, I have seen the most gruesome battlefields, the things that dwell in the depths of the sewers, I am not afraid." The younger man looked at the man with a steely glance, an unwavering expression.

Brandt sighed "So be it, but I did warn you. My tales are not that of heroes" he looked up one last time in hope for swaying the younger mans opinion, but Briac's expression did not shift. "So be it. It was one night in the end of winter…"

***

Brandt trudged down the snow covered road, his boots cracking icy puddles beneath them. He had tried being careful, cold feet in this place would be the death of him. The carts beside him were struggling just as much as he was. After the war the roads had become muddy mires, and now they had dried in tough peaks and troughs, making it hard for the wooden wheels to navigate. They had already lost four of the horses, two of the carts and nearly half of their company to a skirmish just the other night. Since they had left Mordheim it had been a hard road back to Middenheim. The beasts of the forests, the corrupted dark spawn had flooded forth as the city burned and harassed their train as it wound through the dense woodlands. They had even encountered a large number of Orcs, but had thankfully avoided the encounter, barely.

Brandt jogged to the front of the line of carts and to Richter riding before them. The man was as worse for ware as the roads he was on. He had lost an arm, had one of his eyes gouged out and his nose was smashed to resemble a melted candle. It had been a costly journey for all of them, and even Richter's zealousness had dwindled in the fires of Mordheim.

"How long upon the road?" Brandt said, looking over the hills blanketed in fir trees.

"It will be another day or so riding before we hit the main road to Middenheim and then another week before we reach the city. The outriders have said there are Orcs and Goblins massing along our path, so our hope will be that we can slip between their forces being so small in number." Richter gazed off into the distance.

Brandt let Richter ride ahead and settled back towards the rear of the carts, looking for one to jump onto. They were all laden down with people. Refugees from Mordheim and the countryside around it, the taint had taken hold of the city and they were forced away into the wilderness. Against Richter's impressed advice Brandt and the men had rounded up as many as they could and offered them passage to Middenheim and safety. They now sat with drawn faces; sadness etched into every inch of their being and looked onto the cold woodlands around them with fear. It hadn't been long ago that they had been attacked, and many had lost their lives to the beastmen. Nearly all the families that rode with the carts had lost one or more of their kin, some having to watch as their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers were dragged off into the woods with screams echoing into the night.

Brandt knew all too well that it couldn't have been helped. There were just not enough of his men to deal with them. He had lost half his men the week before, and when they had had to face down a second raid by the beastmen they had been forced into protecting only three of the five caravans. It was a decision they had all had to make with a darkness weighing on their souls. They looked down on Brandt even now with disgust; he had even had to bear with one woman screaming at him that he was the cause of their boy's death. He had shown a brave face in front of her then, but when he had returned to his bed roll he had remembered her words, and his dreams had haunted him ever since.

Brandt breathed warm air onto his hands and walked to the back of the train, the handful of troops he had with him were dragging their shields along the floor and generally muttering in discontent. They had thought they were going for riches and honour, but had just bought back horror stories and war wounds. They had even lost the wagon loaded with the spoils to the damnable weather. The horses had bolted in a thunder storm and snapped their ropes to the cart; it had rolled down an embankment and plunged into the darkness of the Drakenwold River. Even Brandt had been dismayed at that incident. He fell in with the soldier's leader, a man named Garret, hard nosed and bitter spirited, a world weary warrior who fought like a possessed demon in combat. Everyone had respect for him

"Not long till we hit the great road" Brandt said.

"About bloody time, our feet can't keep this pace on this rotten earth" Garret said, looking down at his cracked leather boots.

"Hopefully it will pass without incident. I don't think we can take another attack like that, never mind the innocents with us" Brandt looked ahead at a family, huddled together under a rotten blanket.

Garret noticed his gaze and shoved his shoulder. "Can't be thinking of them right now Brandt, it should be about yourself. Keep yourself armed and ready, and don't let anything stand in the way of you getting home to a good bed and good woman." Garret slapped him on the back. "And don't tempt the Gods, Taal may protect us in these woods, but the Chaos Gods will hear your hope and bring it crashing down."

Brandt nodded. What he said was true, he should be looking to his own safety. It was hard enough getting back without having to protect the lives of others, throwing himself into danger for no reward but to be screamed and cursed at. He trudged forwards and untied a horse from one of the carts.

"That's my horse!" one of the refugees said, standing wearily and shaking a finger at him.

"Not any more" Brandt said, clambering atop it and pulling the reins away. "If you want protection we need your horses." He rode away from the protesting peasant towards the front of the lines and Richter once more.

*

The night came quicker than expected. Brandt's horse grew weary soon and he was forced to walk once more. He had felt a pang of guilt in his actions, but he overrode it with the knowledge that he was perhaps doing it to help them. Richter had retired to his cart, sleeping now, as were the others. A handful of guards stood around, their torches lit and staring off into the darkness of the forest on either side. Fear drove them on, but Brandt knew in the thick of fighting it could also freeze you. A noise caught his attention from his right and he craned his neck back to see. The woods were too thick, but he swore he could hear the crunch of feet on the snow. He wheeled round and walked to the side of one of the warriors with him.

"You, your torch" he said, holding out his hand. The man gave it reluctantly and moved to his fellow nearby, hugging the flickering fire light.

Brandt strode off towards the sound, the occasional head peeping over the top of a cart to see what he was doing. He pulled his sword from his side and tested it in his grip, well weighted and ready. He was without shield, that tied to his back but he hoped he would not need it. He stepped off the path and into the bracken before the trees, holding his torch low to search for footprints, nothing, just the tracks of animals, a rabbit, and a fox. He was about to conclude that that was it when the crack of a branch sounded again. Hot breath flowed over the back of his neck and he felt a shuddering intake of air above. Brandt stepped back and looked up, holding the flaming brand before him to see the stranger.

A large, hulking and shaggy form stood before him. Seven feet of beastman towered above him. Thick legs covered in matted fur and ending in twisted hooves, a chest of a man with a bloody tattoo carved into, thick tree like arms each ending in a pair of axes gripped in huge hands. Atop the shoulders, a goats head, huge curled and cracked horns yellow in the moonlight, and two blood red eyes glaring down at him.

The thing was quick; it roared and swung an axe down in a killing blow. Brandt dodged it, rolling to his side and watching as the dirty axe thudded into the snowy ground. A second later and he would have been carved in two. He stood to his feet and flung the brand at the beast, the hot end searing caught the beast's side and it stumbled backwards howling in pain. Brandt lunged forwards; sticking the sword between the beastman's ribs, but the monster roared and turned around, bringing the sword and Brandt with it. An axe came down in a wide arch, Brandt stepped back, letting go of the sword and high tailed it back to the carts.

"Beastmen! Beastman in the woods!" he yelled, drawing the shield from his back and lashing it to his arm.

All around soldiers stumbled from their carts and shoved on loose armour, drawing swords and shields. Richter stepped from his own cart in a night shirt, brandishing his greatsword in one arm. The beastman with Brandt's sword still wedged in the creatures ribs crashed through the undergrowth and swung for him; he barely blocked it with his shield, being sent sprawling backwards into the mud. Arrows flashed above him, thudding into the beastman's chest and arms, it roared in pain, stumbling backwards. Another flurry of arrows flew at the beast, one catching it in the throat. It collapsed, gurgling to the floor. Brandt stood up, nodding in thanks to the soldiers behind him and strode to retrieve his sword. He yanked it free, before cutting into the foul things neck with a jolt of steel on bone. He hacked it off and lifted it up, throwing it into the wilderness. He knew this wouldn't be the end, a second later a war horn blew in the cold still night air.

The beastmen rolled from the forest on either side like a flood of matted fur and steel, some of dog, some of wolf, others of such a monstrous nature no-one could describe them in their wildest dreams.. Roaring, braying at the tops of their mutant lungs they slammed into the train of carts hard. Soldiers tried to bring their weapons to bear, holding shields up to block the axes and hammers. They bit hard, crunching through their limp defences and sending half a dozen of them to the ground in seconds. The archers behind had a better chance and loosed a volley of arrows towards the roaring horrors. Their arrows found their mark, and took a handful of them to the ground, flights sticking in their necks and skulls. To the left of them, Richter was battling with a formidable looking Minotaur. He blocked every swing of the beasts human-length hammer, jarring his bones and sending him sprawling backwards with every connecting hit, he had a grim set, disciplined, expression upon his face and held his nerve.

Brandt's struggle was far worse. The men around him were dead and he was surrounded by the slavering beasts. He had slaughtered two of their kind with disembowelling strikes, keeping the others at bay with his cracked shield, on the edge of breaking against the relentless hammer blows of his foe. He heard a noise behind him, the sound of screaming coming from the carts they where trying to protect. The beastmen had broken their line to the middle, killed the guards and were now swarming over the cart, ripping at the coverings and dragging the peasants from within it. Panic raced through Brandt's mind.

"Save the people!" he shouted, pointing while fending off a dog faced beast lunging at his leg. "Save them, drive the beastman back!" but his voice seemed to be falling on deaf ears.

Garret shoved his way through the crowded combat and took a beasts head from its shoulder with a wild swing.

"A little busy perhaps?" he laughed, his voice hoarse and filled with madness. He grabbed Brandt's arm and dragged him out of the way as the dog creature snapped at his shield arm.

Brandt kicked back at the hound, his boot connecting with the things jaw, it snapped back and the dog-man slouched to the floor. He finished it with the heel of his boot, crunching through its skull and ending its unnatural life.

"The peasants!" Brandt yelled, "we must save them!" He pushed past Garret and ran towards the screaming.

"Hold up young blood!" Garret yelled, following behind him, stabbing around him with his sword, cutting limbs and necks as he went.

They arrived before the cart, the beastmen grasping and clawing at the people inside, dragging them out, killing some, others being dragged off through the throng of fur and rusty metal. The Minotaur had ripped the horses free from the front of it and tossed them aside, and was proceeding to turn the cart into splinters. They were so close, but even as they neared both Brandt and Garret knew it was too late. The gibbering horde bound from the cart in fright as the Minotaur roared, grabbed the cart with two bestial hands and tossed it over. Bodies flew out, crashing to the ground. The beasts swarmed over them, dragging those still alive away. Brandt and Garret tried to stop them, but the press was too much. They were stuck, lodged in the midst of furry beasts, fighting for their lives and watching helplessly as the peasants were taken off by the animals. A horn sounded, the beasts began to retreat, turning and roaring, braying, back into the dark forests.

Silence drenched the bloody scene. Many bodies lay lifeless, others moving, twitching in death throes. Brandt stood with Garret, their swords caked in gore. There was little left in the way of soldiers, only three of them remained, each exhausted and baring wounds so grievous that they would not last the night. The carts had been ransacked, only one of them left intact, where a group of peasants huddled under a blood soaked tarpaulin. Brandt and Garret stood in the middle of it all.

"There is no way we can get back to Middenheim like this" Brandt said, wiping the sword on his trousers and slipping it back into the scabbard.

"True." Garret said, walking over to the crumpled body of Richter in the snow. The old man was twisted and broken, a bloody smile on his face. His sword was cracked, snapped in half. "I don't think we'll be going with the old man either."

Brandt walked to the remaining cart and climbed up into it.

"Its safe now" he said, but he didn't believe his own words. "They have gone", he knew they would be back.

A family of four pulled back the cover and trembled, their eyes wide. The father stood, holding a pistol in his shaking hands, the mother pulled her two babes close to her chest and cried into their hair.

"You said you would protect us" the father said, with trembling anger and sadness racking his body. "You said we would be safe, in Middenheim, away from all this" he stepped over his family and pointed the pistol square at Brandt's chest.

Brandt stepped back out of the cart and signalled for Garret. The old guard ran forwards and drew his sword, pointing it at the man.

"Drop it Gandrin" he said "Its not worth it, we tried all we could"

"Not enough Garret" he said, still aiming the pistol, cocking back the hammer and breathing deeply. "Back away Garret or I will shoot you too"

Garret kept his sword drawn "You wont get a second shot, you wont get a first either if you don't put that down. Save it for the beasts"

Brandt stopped his retreat and put down his hands. "Gandrin, stop this" he said, looking into Gandrin's eyes. "I know you have lost much, but it could not be helped, we tried our best to get you home, to safety"

The next second a bang sounded and a gout of smoke filled Brandt's vision, followed by searing pain. He clutched for his stomach, but could feel nothing. As the smoke cleared a red haze replace it, blood dripping down from his forehead into his vision. He clasped a hand to his head, feeling hot blood seeping between his fingers. Ahead of him Garret stood against a gagging Gandrin; his sword point glinting from the old mans stomach.

"Stupid fool" Garret said, pulling the sword free and letting the lump fall to the ground. "Get that hand away Brandt, let me look at it."

He moved Brandt's hand away and examined the wound. The shot had barely missed, instead carving a bloody track across his brow.

"You didn't have to kill him" he said, wincing as Garret pulled grubby bandages from his belt pouch.

"Would you rather it was you looking up to Sigmar right now?" he said back, pointing to the sky. "Now there's just the small problem of his family." He looked back into the cart, the wife and children huddled together, shaking.

"What do you mean?" Brandt said, fear gripping him.

"Well they can't come with us. They will weigh us down. And we cannot leave them here, to those beasts." Garret picked the pistol from the ground and loaded a shot into the barrel, and handed it too Brandt. "Bloody measures for bloody times Brandt" he walked away to the two soldiers barely holding themselves up.

Brandt looked down at the pistol in his hands and the cart before him. He took the sword from his side and held it in the other hand. He sighed and clambered back into the cart.

"Sigmar save me"

He moved away the tarpaulin and aimed the pistol at the mothers head. With a flash and a bang she collapsed. He took the sword in his hands and lifted the children to their feet, before slitting their throats quickly and efficiently. He surprised himself when he felt nothing at all. Garret was right, maybe this was the best thing he could do. He stood, and covered the corpses. Morr would take them now, save the beasts coming back and giving them a darker fate. He wiped his blade and stepped out of the cart.

***

Briac sat in a stunned reverie.

"So you…" he said, his fingers playing with the ends of his cloak nervously.

"Yes" Brandt said, leaning back in his chair and taking the seventh flagon of ale to his lips, draining it slowly.

"But, a woman, and child…they" Briac said, eyes wild.

"As Garret had said young one, Bloody measures for a bloody time." He looked around, half the tavern had turned to hear his story and were now sitting similarly like Briac, silent and shocked.

Briac stood and moved away, the guards by the wall grabbed their halberds and shoved through the crowds towards the old Brandt.

"Out of here old man, we don't have anything to do with murderers around here." They grabbed him roughly by the shirts and dragged him from his chair, smashing open the door and throwing him out onto the cold street.

Brandt stumbled to his feet and wiped the snow from his cloak. He turned to say something but thought better of it. They wouldn't understand, no-one did, and he had even warned the boy.

As he walked away Briac stood in the doorway watching the retreating figure of the old man. Brandt could feel his eyes burning into the back of his head, but he wouldn't be told he was a murderer, a vicious killer. But he always doubted himself.

'Another tavern, another day' he pondered. He pulled the cloak around him tighter and looked ahead. The lights of another ale house blinked in the night.


End file.
